


the little things we don't say out loud

by JBS_Forever



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Humor, Secret Santa, please pretend we're still in the right part of the holiday season for this fic to make sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-04-25 10:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBS_Forever/pseuds/JBS_Forever
Summary: “It's not funny,” Peter says, voice catching as he whines, “This is life or death, Ned. I'm actually dying.”On the other end of the line, Ned sighs, amused and not at all concerned. “So you're Mr. Stark's secret Santa. It's not that bad.”- - -In which Peter is Tony's secret Santa, and it is, in fact, that bad.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 38
Kudos: 452





	the little things we don't say out loud

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt frostysunflowers sent me on tumblr after I asked for holiday-themed ideas. The prompt said, "Hiiii how about something to do with Tony and Peter getting each other in a secret Santa gift exchange?" 
> 
> Sorry it's so late!  
.

The thing about being stabbed is this: it's still not the worst thing to happen to Peter today.

He's lying on his bed, a towel pressed to the wound on his side – _grazed, Karen, the knife just grazed me_ – and Ned is laughing through the phone.

“It's not funny,” Peter says, voice catching as he whines, “This is life or death, Ned. I'm actually dying.”

On the other end of the line, Ned sighs, amused and not at all concerned. “So you're Mr. Stark's secret Santa. It's not that bad.”

“Yes, it is,” Peter says. “It _is_ that bad.” He readjusts the towel, wincing when his skin pinches. “Dude, what am I even supposed to get someone who literally has everything?”

“Love?” Ned offers, and Peter pulls his phone away, calling out distantly, “Goodbye, Ned.”

He hears the muffled laughter and hangs up. There's blood caked under his nails, staining the tips of his fingers. Thirty people in the secret Santa exchange and somehow Peter picked Tony. Somehow the universe thought, _you know what else you need to be miserable? Find Tony Stark a gift_.

He throws an arm over his face, covering his eyes.

He would rather take the stabbing any day.

\- - -

“What about this?” May says as she wrestles a hanger free from a rack of shirts and nearly elbows a lady squeezing by them in the aisle.

Three stores in Queens and a mall in Manhattan and Peter is dying. He's sweating underneath his beanie and coat, can barely move without hitting someone, and he's pretty sure they're further away from finding a gift than they were before they went shopping.

“Sorry!” May says to the lady.

Peter doesn't pay her attention. He fixes his gaze on the horrendous red and black bowling shirt in May's grip.

May takes note of his expression with a click of her tongue. “Not good?”

“Not good,” Peter says.

“Well, what does Tony like to wear?”

“Um, clothes?” Peter flicks through a few shirts on his own. In all honesty, he never spends much time looking at the way Tony dresses. Whenever they're together, they're usually busy – working on a project or fighting through a mission of some sort. Peter can remember Tony only in jeans and shirts with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the red and gold of his Iron Man armor.

“Man, this sucks.”

“Peter,” May says, working the hanger back onto the rack. “I love you. You know that, right?”

Peter frowns at her, and says, after an unsure moment, “Yes?”

“Then I need to tell you, from the bottom of my heart, you're being a baby.” She reaches out and hooks her fingers under the edge of his beanie, sliding it off. She pushes it into his hands. “A lovable, neighborhood-hero-with-a-secret-identity kind of baby, but a baby nonetheless.”

Peter twists his lips together and brushes damp curls away from his forehead. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

“Good,” May says. “Just as long as you know.” She smiles at him, big and bright, and Peter rolls his eyes.

“It's just,” Peter says, “This is my first time ever buying something for Mr. Stark. I want it to be perfect, you know? He's done a lot for me. He deserves something nice.”

“I get that,” says May. “But I don't think he's gonna judge you based on something you get him as part of a secret Santa exchange.”

Peter looks up at the ceiling to where paper cutouts of snowflakes hang from fishing wire. A man and a lady wearing “I heart NY” sweaters are taking pictures of the decorations, taking pictures of themselves in front of the Christmas tree in the window with cheesy and staged poses.

“Okay,” Peter says. “But what if he does?”

“Then I think we need a more expensive store.”

“There's a thirty dollar limit.”

“Then …” May taps her nails against the metal pole of the clothing rack. She shrugs an exaggerated motion Peter knows is meant to be teasing. “Then I guess you're screwed.”

“Now you finally see it my way,” Peter says, unzipping his coat to air out some of the heat. He shoves his beanie into his pocket and freezes when he feels May's eyes zero in on his side.

“Are you bleeding?” she asks.

Peter yanks his coat closed. “Um. No?”

“Peter.”

“Okay, maybe,” he says, and touches the tender spot, brings his hand back sticky and red. “Oops?”

May inhales and exhales through her nose. “You're going to be the death of me.”

\- - -

Six days before Christmas, five days before the party where he will officially have to drop off Tony's gift, Peter is in a bookstore downtown with MJ and Ned and he's running out of options.

“A puzzle?” Ned suggests, stopping in front of a children's toy display. He picks up a box with a cartoon owl on it and shakes it. “Five hundred pieces. Mr. Stark likes puzzles, doesn't he?”

Peter snatches the box from him and drops it back onto the table. “Be serious, Ned.”

Ned laughs, wheezing between words like he's trying and failing to keep it together. “How can I be serious when your face looks like that?”

“I'm going to find MJ.”

“Aw, come on,” Ned says. He grabs another puzzle and extends it to Peter as Peter starts to leave. “This one is a sloth. Everyone loves sloths!”

“I'm pretending I don't know you,” Peter calls, and ignores the stares it gets him in response from strangers mulling about. If nothing else, this is one of the reasons Peter hates shopping at Christmas. Too many people. Too many tourists.

He finds MJ near the back of the store, in a row to herself, reading through a book. When he gets closer, he slows, wiping his palms on the front of his shirt. He fixes his hair in one quick motion before she glances up at him.

“Hey,” she says, closing her book.

“Hey.”

“Find anything?”

“Well, Ned is looking at kid's toys,” Peter says. “And I'm looking for a new best friend. So there's that.”

MJ smiles a little, tucking her hair behind her ear. Peter's insides twist. He wrings his hands together.

“Um,” he says. “Do you … do you have any suggestions? Maybe something he'd like to read?”

“You could get him _How to Run a Business Without Blowing it Up_,” MJ says.

Peter tilts his head. “I feel like that's not real,” he says, but MJ points to the black spine of a book on the shelf to her right, and Peter pulls it free to see that it is, in fact, real. And maybe a little mean.

He turns it over in his hands. “Ah. Uh, maybe for a different occasion?”

MJ shrugs one shoulder and returns the book to its original spot, her mouth still curved, entertained. Peter can't help but smile too.

And then Ned roams past the end of their row, doubling back when he sees them.

“I've got it!” he says, waving a bright-colored novel above his head, bouncing as he comes to a stop. “Dr. Seuss. It's perfect.” He's got a copy of _Oh, the Places You'll Go!_ and he grips it tight. “My mom got my cousin this when he graduated college and he loved it! I bet Mr. Stark would love it too.”

The thing is, Peter can't tell if Ned is being serious or not, but he's leaning toward the latter, even if he is half-tempted by the idea. Still, a kid's book doesn't seem – right? Enough?

He says this to Ned and MJ, and they all stand quietly for a moment.

“You're his intern, right?” MJ says finally. “He mentors you?”

“Yeah,” Peter says.

“And you look up to him?”

Peter nods without bothering to fill in the details. MJ knows about the internship, but she doesn't know about Spider-Man. She doesn't know just how much Tony has done for him.

She chews on her bottom lip, looking thoughtful. “You should show him why you look up to him, I think,” she says. “Maybe make something for him. If you were someone's hero, wouldn't you want to know why?”

“That –” _is brilliant_, is what Peter thinks._ Perfect_. It's true and meaningful and a great way to show Tony his gratitude.

But what he says, out loud and groaning, is, “That makes this so much harder.”

He has to start over from scratch.

\- - -

“Hey,” he says, to one of the robbers he has webbed outside of the jewelry store, “You steal things for a living, right? You ever steal a gift someone was given? What would you say the best one you've seen is?”

The man struggles against Peter's webs and scowls at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“That kind of language is not in the holiday spirit,” Peter says. He shoots another web at the guy's mouth. “If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all. That's what my aunt taught me.”

“Christ,” says the second robber, dangling in a cocoon of webs connected to a streetlamp behind Peter. “How old are you?”

“How old do you think I am?” Peter asks.

“What kind of hero asks people robbing a store for gift recommendations?”

“The swifty and desperate kind, obviously.”

The second robber, resigned to his restraints, slumped in defeat, eyes Peter in his Spider-Man suit. “Who ya getting a gift for? Girlfriend? Family member?”

“Mentor,” Peter says.

“Like some Mr. Miyagi type shit?”

“Yes!” Peter says, excited. “Just like that! Great reference. You ever watch the second movie? It's not as good, but it has some merit.”

“The third is better,” the robber says.

Peter puts his hands on his hips. “Wow. I thought we were really going somewhere until you said that.”

“Whatever,” says the robber. “You want to get your Mr. Miyagi a gift, then get him something from the heart. No store-bought cards or shit. Put some thought into it. This guy has to deal with _you_ on a daily basis.”

“That was almost nice,” Peter says, and in his ear, Karen warns, “Peter, the police are approaching.” Sirens ring out in approaching speed. Peter checks an imaginary watch on his wrist. “Look at the time. Do yourself a favor and be nice to the cops. They might go easier on you.”

“Thanks a lot,” the robber says sarcastically.

Peter gives him a cheery wave. “Happy Holidays! Thanks for the advice!”

“Whatever.”

\- - -

He looks. He really, truly does. Looks through every store in Queens and searches online and finds as many interviews with Tony as he can to get an idea of what he likes – and does, later, regret that decision when he comes across a few conversations he wishes he could black out of his mind. Because – yuck. Some things he doesn't need to know about Tony. Some things a younger Tony really shouldn't have shared with pretty ladies holding microphones.

“It's hopeless,” Peter says, “I'm hopeless.” Arms folded on the kitchen counter, he buries his face into the crook of his elbow. May flips through dust-covered cookbooks in the living room.

“Blueberry muffins?” she mutters to herself. “Blueberry waffles? Oh, blueberry quiche!”

“Gross,” Peter says. He hears the soft thump of the book closing and the sound of May pulling another from the hutch.

“You're right, that one was probably a mistake,” she says. Peter shudders from the memory, but May doesn't linger long in the past. Too cheerful for Peter's current wallowing, she claps her hands and says, “All right, moping time is over. Chop chop. Keep looking for those recipes.”

Peter heaves out a long breath and straightens. It's his last resort, baking something for Tony, and he thinks about how the only food he really knows Tony likes is blueberries and cheeseburgers. Neither of which are helping him now in any meaningful way.

He rummages through the drawer near the sink. For years May has collected piles of handwritten recipes. They rarely ever use them, but she's decided they'll help Peter somehow, so he shifts through index cards and notepads until he comes up with a photo stuck to the back of a piece of paper.

And here it is. The faces staring up at him, the familiar, childish scrawl on the letter clinging to the fingers of his other hand with some unknown, tacky substance. Without meaning to, he's found exactly what he needs. He's found Tony's gift.

“May,” he says, “I have a brilliant idea.”

\- - -

But come time for the party, Peter decides his brilliant idea isn't so brilliant after all.

Christmas Eve arrives in a burst of colors. In the compound, lights drape from the ceiling and over stairwell railings. There's a wreath on the front door and flowers on tables and a giant tree in the lobby that reflects red and green off the floor.

Peter fidgets in a blazer too big around the shoulders. They got here late, the party already in full swing, one half of its hosts nowhere in sight. Peter left his gift in Tony's office and it's all he can see in his mind now, that stupid Santa wrapping paper sitting on the desk. Peter thought it was so funny. _Get it_? he asked May. _Because I'm his secret Santa_?

Jeez, he really hates himself sometimes.

He gnaws at his thumbnail. Pepper, standing with May near a table full of food, sees his roaming gaze and mistakes his anxiety for something else.

“Tony is around here somewhere,” she says. “You know him, always fashionably late. If he even shows up all.”

Peter feels vaguely like he's gonna be sick. He's changed his mind. 

“Uh, can you excuse me for a second?” he asks, inching toward the exit. “I just need … to use the restroom.” Not waiting for confirmation, he dashes through the growing crowd. He just has to get the gift. He can come up with an excuse after that. He's good at excuses. But this secret Santa thing? This giving Tony Stark something meaningful thing? He's not good at that.

He reaches Tony's office and presses his hands against the window to peer in. The hallway is empty, but he keeps his voice down just in case when he says, “Friday? Uh, can you open this door for me? My gift for Mr. Stark is in there and I just – I need to check something on it.”

“Sure, Peter,” Friday says, and the door clicks open.

“Thanks, Friday,” Peter whispers – whispers, like he's committing a crime instead of taking back a present. That's what it feels like anyway, sneaking into the darkness of Tony's office. But the box is still sitting on his desk. He hasn't been here yet. Peter counts his blessings.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay. Friday, can you do me a favor? Can you not tell Mr. Stark I was here?”

“That might be a problem,” Friday says, and Peter opens his mouth to ask why when the lights flip on. He spins, clutching the gift to his chest. It's a problem because Tony is already here, standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his dark green blazer.

“Uh, thief?” he says. “Intruder alert? Friday, what's the deal? You're supposed to tell me when I'm being robbed.”

Peter nearly drops the gift. He stumbles in the rush to get his explanation out. “Mr. Stark, it's not – I'm not – it's not what it looks like!”

“Oh, yeah?” Tony drops his arms. There's no malice in his words, something closer to humor instead. He quirks an eyebrow, and yeah – definitely humor. “So you're not pulling a Grinch and stealing all the presents from Whoville? Ruining Christmas and all that?”

“No.” Peter takes a deep breath. He knows he's being laughed at but he's too panicked to care. He never should have listened to MJ or that guy who robbed a jewelry store. “Mr. Stark, I'm your secret Santa –”

“I know.”

“– and I was just feeling bad about your gift and I – wait, what? You know?”

Tony makes a motion for him to carry on, pushing away from the door and side-stepping Peter to stand behind his desk. The Santa wrapping paper crinkles in Peter's hold. He was so close to making it out. He was so close to avoiding this moment.

“We're on a time crunch here, kid,” Tony says. “So you wanna tell me what's got you so worked up that you'd break into my office and steal my present?”

“I didn't break in.”

“You conspired with Friday then. Semantics. ”

“It's not like that. I just – I didn't know what to get you,” Peter admits. “And I spent a long time looking, but nothing felt right. People told me to make you something and I did, kind of, but it's – it's stupid. I can find you something better. I just need a little more time.”

“Let me see it,” Tony says, and Peter takes a step back, ready to run.

“But,” he starts weakly, “It's not Christmas yet.”

Tony holds a hand out. “Every day is Christmas when you have love in your heart. Give me the present.”

It's too late. Running now would make Peter look even more ridiculous than he already does, and he really, really doesn't want that, so he concedes, releasing the gift to Tony who wastes no time sliding his finger under the wrapping paper and ripping through it.

Peter sees the exact moment his eyes land on the picture frame. It's black, heavy. Peter bought it from Macy's on a discount stand but May said it would hold up just fine. It was the picture that was the important part. The picture that Tony is staring at now, expression unreadable as a young version of Peter grins at the camera. Peter, with his thick rimmed glasses, missing a front tooth. And behind him, Ben, who has an arm around none other than Tony himself. They're all smiling, stood in front of a building under construction. Peter had been six or seven then. He and Ben were in town while the Stark Expo was being set up and happened to run into Tony, but Peter doubts Tony remembers it. Until he saw the picture, Peter had forgotten too.

“Mr. Stark –”

Tony ignores him, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It's not the picture Peter regrets. It's the note he attached to it, the one Tony unfolds and reads while Peter thinks of different ways he wishes he could die.

“_Dear Mr. Iron Man_,” the note says. “_Thank you for taking a picture with me and saving New York. I want to be a superhero too when I grow up but my aunt says I have to finish school first. Are you looking for a sidekick? I already have my colors picked out. Is it okay if I use red? You use red too and it's really cool. Maybe we can match._

_Anyway, I hope I can be as awesome as you are someday. I really admire you. Maybe we can save the world together after I'm done with school. Please write me if you want a sidekick._

_Your #1 fan,_

_Peter Parker_.”

Peter pushes his hands over his eyes. Back then he wanted to draw a picture of Iron Man to send with the note, but he never finished it, so May never sent it. Part of him wishes she had mailed it anyway just so he could have avoided this interaction right now. What he wouldn't give to go back in time.

“Can we pretend this never happened?” Peter asks.

“Nope,” says Tony, refolding the note. He tosses aside the wrapping paper and sets the picture frame up on his desk next to his phone. His voice goes soft around the edges. “Is that your uncle? The guy standing next to me?”

“Yeah,” Peter says.

"He was nice. I remember him."

"You – you do?"

Tony nods. Peter waits, his cheeks warm and his leg bouncing. 

“So this is the real reason your costume has so much red, huh?” Tony asks, and Peter can tell it's meant to be a distraction, to make sure he's not upset about the memory of Ben. It's embarrassing all the same. “Because you still want to be my sidekick?”

Peter groans. “No.”

“I think we could make it happen. We could work out the contract. A little Batman and Robin type scenario. I like it.”

“I'm just gonna go die now, if that's okay,” Peter says, making for the door. Tony stops him with a quiet, “Ah” and calls him back.

“Hang tight, Robin,” he says, and pulls open a desk drawer. “I have something for you too.”

He's still holding the note, but upon Peter's scowl stuffs it into his coat pocket and brings up a small gift bag. The fact he keeps Peter's dumb message makes Peter's face burn even more.

“Here,” he says, moving to stand next to Peter. He dangles the bag from his pinkie. “Merry Christmas.”

Peter takes it from him. “Are you my secret Santa?”

“No,” says Tony, and then amends, “Well, sure. Why not?”

“Why'd you get me a gift if you're not my secret Santa?”

“Why don't you just open it and stop complaining?”

Peter huffs a little and shifts the handles of the bag aside. It's just a thin sheet of black material inside, like plastic, no bigger than two fingers in either dimension. Peter holds it carefully and searches for what he's missing. 

“Uh –”

“Put it against the inside of your wrist,” Tony says. “And then hit your other wrist against it. Give it a good jolt. It's still a beta.”

Peter lines the plastic up along his skin and twists his arm to hit it. It unfolds before his eyes, circling both wrists in the familiar bracelets of his webshooters. And that's – oh, that's what it is. It's new webshooters, compact and snapping into place in the span of a second. Peter holds his arms up in disbelief.

“You designed these for me?” he says.

“Yup.”

“Mr. Stark, that's so – that's so _cool_. How do they work? Will my web fluid be able to fit inside when they're not on? Do they still sync up to my suit? Not that it really matters, but I was just wondering. How did you manage the –"

“Did I mention we're on a time crunch?” Tony interrupts. “Party in progress? People to mingle with?”

“Right,” Peter says. “Sorry, sorry. Thanks, Mr. Stark. I love them.” But oh man, he hates his gift to Tony even more now. He casts a look at the picture frame again, wondering if he can take it when Tony isn't watching.

“Don't even think about it,” Tony says, reading his thoughts. “That lives there now.”

“But I –”

“Let's go.” Tony shoos him away from the desk with a nudge against his shoulder. Peter will figure out a way in the future to get both the note and picture from him, but for now he lets it be, lets Tony push him toward the door.

Which reminds him – “How'd you know I was your secret Santa?”

“Oh,” says Tony, turning off the lights. “You know that bowl we had everyone pick names from?”

“Yeah.”

“My name was the only one inside.”

Peter gapes at him. “But there were supposed to be thirty people in the exchange?”

Tony just grins, teeth showing, mischievous and so, so clever. “Don't I know it,” he says, and leads Peter back to the party with Peter's note still tucked carefully in his pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure most people know how secret Santa exchanges work, but I had to look it up because I've never been part of one. If you aren't familiar with it like I wasn't, in this version they drew names from a bowl to decide who they had to buy a gift for. There were supposed to be thirty people participating in the exchange, but Tony wrote his name on all thirty pieces of paper so everyone would think they were his secret Santa. Peter was the only one with a limit to how much he could spend since Tony knows he doesn't have a lot of money. 
> 
> Anywayyyy, I meant to write this when it was actually still the holidays, but I was really busy then and didn't get time until after the new year. So please pretend it's still December so this fic will make sense, haha. 
> 
> [My Tumblr, if you want to hang out](https://jbsforever.tumblr.com/). And, as always, a big thank you for reading! <3


End file.
